


At the still point of the turning world

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1490290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything, they have each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the still point of the turning world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sasha_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/gifts).



> This is my nbc_revolution Secret Santa 2013 gift for sasha_b. Based on her prompts: _Winter in the apocalypse_ , _h/c angst_ and _backstory_. It's an AU take on what happened after the events of 1x20. The nukes dropped, but there are no Patriots invading the country; Randall was just a crazy guy acting alone. Charlie and Miles are the only ones who survived the tower. (Also, Charlie and Jason were never together.) Title taken from T.S. Eliot's _Four Quartets_.

They've been walking for weeks. Heading north at first, then due west, away from all the loss and desolation, away, just the two of them now. Just the two of them. 

Charlie's done keeping track of time. All she knows is that the days are too long, too hot, too bright, too beautiful. She looks at Miles and thinks that the weariness on his sunburned face must mirror her own. 

They don't speak much outside of what's necessary. They find water, they hunt and they gather, they stop for rest. Charlie tends to their campfire and Miles prepares their food. 

He puts his arm around her after they're done eating (tonight, every night) and she lets him pull her closer. They huddle together because there's nothing else to do. 

"Sleep," he says. His voice sounds rough, but it's the gentleness underneath it that hurts her. 

She closes her eyes. Doesn't move or pull away. He smells of sweat and travel-worn clothes, of lingering sunshine and smoke. He feels like the only refuge left in the world. 

The chattering of the fire follows her into dreams and whispers to her of their dead. When she wakes, Miles is still there. He's always (still) there.

The sun rises in the morning; the sun rises every morning. They walk. Days string together into more weeks. The changing leaves scatter on the forest floor, the nights turn colder. They walk. Charlie doesn't ask, but Miles says it's October.

It rains. There are holes in Charlie's shoes. They venture into a shanty-town and trade some of their supplies for a sheet of tarp, a bunch of mismatched socks and a pair of ill-fitting boots for her. Tales of what's left of the east coast cut their visit short. 

They stick to the woods after that. Far from the roads. Far from everyone but each other.

*

They're sitting on a log under the tarp, watching the latest rainfall in the waning afternoon light. It's not much more than a drizzle, but it's a freezing one. They have their blankets wrapped around their shoulders. 

"Danny loved the rain," Charlie says. She hasn't mentioned her brother's name out loud in months; it weighs heavy in her chest now. 

Miles shifts next to her and she wonders what he's thinking, what he's going to say. She doesn't let him say it. 

"He always knew," Charlie goes on. "When the weather was going to turn. He could always tell somehow. In here," she says, bringing her hand to her chest. The weight inside her sinks into her stomach, threatens to pull her into the ground. She presses her lips together to keep herself from making any sound. 

Miles seems to hear her anyway. He finds her hand with his and laces their fingers together. "Charlie," he whispers. So rough and so gentle. "I miss him too." 

She thinks it can't be true ( _you barely even knew him_ ) because it doesn't make sense in her head. But she can hear it in his voice, the ache underlying the words he's just said. 

Charlie doesn't look at him; she doesn't think she could stand to see that same ache in his eyes. 

He doesn't let go of her hand until after the rain stops falling. 

*

There's a river. There's sunlight glinting off the water, gold and silver. The river flows south. Charlie and Miles are heading north again. The ground's turned steeper under their feet these last few days, and the alders have given way to evergreens. 

"We must be pretty high up by now," Charlie says. Her breath swirls before her in the cold mountain air. "Where did you say we were going?"

"I hiked through here with Ben when I was sixteen," Miles says, as if that explained everything.

They come across the cabin a couple of hours later. Even from a distance Charlie can see that no one's been there in years. 

There are twin trunks of sheets and blankets up in the loft. In the pantry they find tea bags, salt, some sugar, candles, a few canned goods that Miles swears should still be edible. The windows are dirty but all intact. The well pump outside is broken, but the river's close enough that they won't want for water.

They sweep the floor. They clear the porch from a decade of debris. They air the sheets and make the beds in the loft. They bring in firewood from the shed out back. Miles makes sure the chimney isn't blocked.

Sitting side by side on the couch that evening, they sip hot tea and relax. The glow of the fireplace throws flickering shadows across every surface in the room, paints Charlie and Miles in black and light.

"We used to make up stories," Charlie says, full of words all of a sudden. "Danny and I." She looks at Miles and finds him watching her. "After the Blackout we kept wandering from place to place. The first few years we only ever settled down through winter until spring."

"And where do the stories come in?" Miles asks.

Charlie gives him a sad smile. "Danny kept asking questions," she says. "Our parents would find an empty house we could stay in for a few months, and more often than not there were all these things left behind. Photographs, letters, books, clothes. Toys," she whispers. "And Danny always wanted to know, where did those families go, why weren't they coming back?" 

"You didn't want to tell him that they were likely all dead." 

"Right," Charlie says. "So our mom and dad would say that they'd all moved away. That they had to leave home in a hurry like we had and walk very far, and they couldn't carry much so they had to leave most of their stuff. I knew that wasn't true, I mean, maybe I believed it at first, but they kept saying that same thing every year. So maybe it made sense that people had left their homes after the Blackout, but if each family had moved into another family's house then why were so many houses still empty even after all that time? It didn't add up. And I'd seen enough dead people by then to realize the truth. And then Danny caught on, too, and he stopped asking our parents. But he asked me instead."

"That must have been tough for you," Miles says. 

"He trusted me. I couldn't lie to him." She looks at the half full mug in her hands, sighs as she remembers. "I told him those families were never coming back home. And he said, why not? Where do they live now? And I said they didn't live anywhere." Charlie pauses, brings her gaze back to Miles. "He knew what I was saying. It made him sad. It made me sad to see him sad. And that's when we started making up stories about the people who'd lived there. We had to make them real, you know? They had to be more than just those pictures on the mantelpiece. What were their names, what did they do? Maybe the little boy and girl loved to draw, maybe there were crayon animals hiding everywhere under the white paint on the walls. The older sister, she loved climbing trees. They'd all fly kites together in the backyard in summer. Their mom would sing in the morning while making breakfast, their dad read them five different bedtime stories every night. After the lights went out they went to live with their grandparents. What were they all doing right that minute, did they miss their old house? 'Cause no one ever died in our stories. Ever. They were all just... somewhere else." 

Miles sits very still next to her. Charlie puts her mug down on the coffee table. There are tears in her eyes.

"I made him so many promises through the years," she whispers. "I told him we'd travel to the coast one day so we could see the ocean together for the first time. I told him I'd always be there, that I'd never let anything bad happen to him. There were so many times when he couldn't breathe and I'd tell him not to be scared, he'd be fine again in a minute. I didn't know it then, but I was only making up more stories for him."

"Charlie," Miles says. Always her name when he wants to comfort her. He draws her closer and she leans against him. She waits for him to say something more.

He doesn't.

*

They spend the next week foraging the woods for as much food as they can find. The sky is a cloudless, vivid blue that seems to deepen with each passing day. The crisp air grows expectant with snow. 

There are hours of work waiting for them back at the cabin too. Skinning rabbits and squirrels, curing meat and fish, storing the supplies they've brought with them. Turning a hole-riddled blanket into hats and scarves and mittens and slippers that they can wear through the worst of winter. 

"You know, we're pretty lucky," Miles says one afternoon. They're seated at the dinner table sharing the last of their liquor. Winter's declaring itself sovereign outside, bringing snow and frost from further up north. 

"Lucky?" Charlie says, facing him with a raised eyebrow. "That's not a word I'd use to describe either of us."

"Why not? We're both alive. We survived the Blackout, the Monroe Republic, the rebellion, the tower, and countless other things in between."

"We did. And everyone we ever loved didn't."

"We've got each other," Miles says. His eyes seem to be daring her to look away.

Charlie holds his gaze with an effort. _He's had too much to drink_ , she thinks. 

Miles breaks contact when he tips his head back to drain his bottle. "We found this place," he says, voice whiskey-gruff. "Still in habitable condition. Blankets, food, utensils, some tools, a shed full of firewood that didn't rot. How is that not lucky?"

"You mean you didn't know this cabin was here? But you said you and my dad were here before."

"Thirty years ago, Charlie. It was summer when we passed through this area. We camped out in tents. We couldn't afford to rent a cabin. I just remembered seeing one or two on our hikes. I figured chances were good that no one had made it this far. We're pretty removed from everything here." 

_We've been pretty removed from everything for a long time,_ she thinks. Aloud, all she says is, "All right, then. We're lucky."

Miles rolls his eyes, rakes his fingers through his hair. She's not sure if he's aggravated or amused. "Tell me something," he says. 

"Like what?"

"Anything. What's your favorite color. What were you like as a kid." 

"You knew me as a kid," she says. And then, "Pink."

"Pink?" he asks. He's definitely amused now. 

She smiles. "When I was a kid, yeah, pink. Now? Blue. Green." She shrugs. "Blue-green."

"Turquoise," he decides. 

Her smile widens. "How do you even know that word," she teases him. 

"Hey, I've read books other than the _Marine Corps Drill And Ceremonies Manual_ ," Miles says.

"Did you really," Charlie says, still smiling. "I wish we had a few books to help pass the time."

"We could write our own," he says, sounding more than half serious. 

Charlie's smile fades until it's barely there. "Why? We already know how that story goes."

"Do we? It's funny how you can read a book, put it aside for a few years, and when you pick it up again you notice things you didn't before. You're reminded of things you'd forgotten. You can remember all the major plot points but your mind gets fuzzy on the details. And it's those details that make the story worth reading again." 

"We can't write a book," Charlie says. Stubborn. Unsure of what he's getting at. "We don't have any paper or parchment or anything to write with."

"So it's a lousy idea," he says. "Won't be my last."

She just looks at him for a moment. "What's _your_ favorite color?"

"Burgundy," he tells her.

"Wine," she says, smiling again despite herself. "Of course it would be a booze color."

Miles chuckles. "Touché," he concedes. "So. You as a kid. After the Blackout. What did you do apart from looking after your brother?"

"I collected things," Charlie says. "Pretty things. A bright blue feather Danny found in the woods. A smooth round pebble. A miniature porcelain cup with yellow flowers painted on it. Small shards of colored glass, red, purple, orange. A seashell. The broken tip of a crystal chandelier. A brass drawer knob shaped like a butterfly. A tiny silver star earring." 

"Sounds like quite a collection," Miles says.

"It was. There was more, I can't remember all of it anymore. I was always adding to it. My dad said I was his magpie," she tells Miles, the memory bittersweet. "I kept it all in an old wood box that I carried in my backpack. It had a latch and a hinged lid. It was painted turquoise," she says, smiling softly at him. "But the paint had worn off in places and the natural wood color was showing through. It was beautiful anyway." 

"What happened to it?"

Charlie shrugs. "I lost it. Right after my mom left," she says. "I lost my whole backpack. I didn't really care about most of the things I had in there, but my treasure box, Danny's favorite book that I read to him every night... The few pictures I had of our family. Those were things I couldn't replace. I was upset about it for a long time."

Miles looks sad for her. "I'm sorry," he says.

She shrugs again. "It was a long time ago. And it was a silly thing to be upset about anyway. My dad, he gave me the one picture he had left, him and my mom cuddling on the couch. I had it with me when I came to Chicago looking for you." 

He doesn't have to ask to know that she's lost that too. She has nothing left to tie her back to home. Everything, everyone is gone.

And there it is again. That pit inside her, not shrinking but digging deeper into her, turning her hollow. She wants to get up. Push her chair back and go to bed, crawl under the covers and find sleep. But the imagined sound of her chair scraping against the floor sounds too loud in her head.

They lapse into silence. 

There's the snap of burning logs in the fireplace. There's the wind outside. 

There's the two of them, seated at the dinner table. 

*

"How come I'm always the one telling you about myself?" Charlie asks, hugging her jacket tight around her with her mittened hands. 

They're outside for the first time in days. The landscape's turned into a gleaming white expanse, courtesy of the storm that seemed neverending only yesterday. 

Miles blows on his tea, hands wrapped around the mug. "What do you wanna know?" They're standing side by side on the snow-cleared porch, breathing in the clean cold air.

"Anything," Charlie says. "Everything." 

"Patience, grasshopper," Miles says. "One thing at a time. Pick something."

"You and my dad. Why weren't you close?"

"We were," he tells her. "And we weren't. It's complicated."

"I've got time," she says. "We both do."

He doesn't answer right away. She watches his profile as he looks into the distance, sipping his tea, stomping his feet for warmth once or twice. 

"Your dad was the golden boy," he finally says. "Super smart, friendly, generous, patient, good looking, and humble to boot. He was always the brightest person in the room by far, but he never made anyone feel that they were less than him. He was a smooth talker too, could convince anyone of anything if he wanted, but he never abused that ability. He always had a smile for people, was always on time for everything, never got into any serious trouble. Me, well, I won't say I was the black sheep, but I was always getting in trouble. Trouble was my state of being," he says, looking at Charlie with a wry smile.

She smiles back at him. "I can see how that's true."

"Anyhow," he says. "You'd think I'd be jealous of him, or at least resent him a little. But I didn't. I worshipped him. He was a great older brother. I would've gotten into twice the amount of trouble if it hadn't been for Ben covering for me, bailing me out, distracting our parents. Charming them into going easier on me. But it went beyond that. He spent time with me, taught me things. Video games, ice skating. How to ride a bike." 

"So what happened?" 

"Life," he tells her. "The Monroes moved in next door. Ben was about to start high school when I was still in grade school. Bass was my age, and back then he was an only child--that was before his sisters were born. He was always at our door looking for company. Once the school year started Ben had a lot less free time because his workload doubled, and it didn't take long for Bass and I to become inseparable. After that," Miles says, pausing to sip his tea. "Ben and I just grew apart. We still cared about each other, but we had different interests, different friends."

"I can't imagine letting anything as trivial as homework come between me and Danny," Charlie says softly. 

"It wasn't just homework," Miles says, looking at her. "It was everything. And it was a different world, Charlie. School was a big deal for Ben. He wanted to amount to something. He wasn't like me, I had no idea what I wanted."

"It doesn't matter," Charlie insists. "Your age, friendships, ambitions, none of that matters. You were brothers. Family." 

"And who was it that taught you that family comes first?" Miles says, tossing the dregs of his tea out onto the snow before turning to face her. "If you're going to be mad at one of us, it shouldn't be him. He's not the one who put his ambitions ahead of his family. You have no idea, Charlie. No idea about the things I've done."

"I'm not mad at him," Charlie says. "But I'm not going to be mad at you either. So maybe I don't have a list of all the things you regret doing, but that's the thing, Miles. You regret them. You're not that guy anymore, you walked away from that life."

"Regret isn't enough," he says. "I can never undo any of the suffering I caused. I can never make up for any of it."

"You've made it up to _me_."

"How, Charlie? By teaching you how to kill people? By letting your brother get killed right in front of you? Then failing to keep your mother alive too."

"You kept _me_ alive. You taught me how to better defend myself. You got me to Danny, I never would've made it without you. You got him and my mom away from Monroe, you saved them, you saved me. What happened later wasn't your fault." 

"I'm not a hero. I'm every bad thing that's ever happened to you and Danny and Rachel and Ben," he says, bitter, defeated. "I can't believe that after everything that's happened you can still be this naïve."

She wants to hit him. "After everything that's happened," she says. She's shaking and it's not from the cold. "I trust you more than anything, more than ever. Shouldn't I, Miles? Have you been planning a new militia this whole time? Are you just bidding your time before you ditch me somewhere?"

"You know I'm never leaving you, not if I can help it," Miles rasps. The hurt look on his face makes her heart ache too.

"Yeah," Charlie says, her voice catching. "I know."

She wants to reach for him. She wants to say that she's just scared. Because the world's too big. Because they're both so small.

He's slamming the door behind him before she has the chance.

*

It's late. There's snow falling outside. It doesn't make a sound.

Charlie's in bed, awake under her blankets. She's warm enough, comfortable enough. But sleep won't come.

She thinks of the quiet in the room. She thinks of the quiet outside. She thinks of the clouds covering the sky. She thinks of the sky above the clouds. 

She could close her eyes. She could pretend that she's still home in her village. That it's Danny who's awake in the bed next to hers instead of Miles. That her father's asleep in the other room, his arms around Maggie. 

_There's no other room,_ she thinks. _They're not here, they won't ever be here again. They're all somewhere else now._

"I took you to see the fireworks on the Fourth of July once," Miles says from his bed. 

It doesn't startle her. She thinks she's been waiting for him to speak. 

"I don't remember that," she says. She turns on her bed to face Miles across the gloom. The fire's burning low downstairs.

"You wouldn't," he says. "You were what, not even two and a half yet. Danny was barely over a month old and he was still in the hospital. Your mother was practically living there, she wouldn't leave his side. Ben had promised to take you, but he was running ragged spending his time between home and the hospital and Rachel needed him. The Red Cross got me hardship leave when Danny was born, and it was almost up, but I had another week left before they were shipping me off to Afghanistan again. So I told Ben I'd come back to Chicago and stay for a couple of days, give him and your grandparents a break." 

"Go on," Charlie says when Miles stops. 

"I took you to Navy Pier, that's where they had the big fireworks. Carried you on my shoulders so you wouldn't miss anything. I let you have your fill of cotton candy and ice cream," he says. "You decided that applying some of it to my hair was a great idea."

"Sorry?" Charlie says, not bothering to mask the laughter in her tone. 

"Nah," Miles tells her. "I had a great time, we both did. By the time I brought you back home we'd managed to lose your headband and one of your shoes. You were exhausted, but so hyper too that you stayed up half the night."

"I can't imagine you chasing a toddler around."

"You weren't just any toddler, Charlie, you were my niece. You and Danny..." he sighs. "Having kids of my own wasn't something I wanted, but the two of you? I cared about you."

Something in his voice brings tears to Charlie's eyes. 

Miles sits up in his bed. "I should throw another log in the fire," he says. 

Charlie watches him go. There's the tread of his feet down the stairs. There's the dry sound of wood against wood, the pop and crackle of the fire. 

When Miles returns, she expects him to get back into his bed. He sits on the edge of her bed instead. 

"Now sleep," he says. He brushes his fingers through her hair. 

She wonders (not for the first time, not for the last) how he can be so harsh and so tender at the same time.

"I'll make breakfast tomorrow," he says. "Sleep."

She closes her eyes.

She sleeps.

* 

Charlie wakes up the next morning to the smells of cooking. She can hear Miles by the wood stove. 

She pees in the bucket she keeps under her bed. Washes her hands and her face in the basin on the dresser. Brushes her teeth and smooths down her hair. Puts on her boots and her jacket and carries her bucket downstairs.

"Hey," she says when Miles glances at her. 

She makes a quick trip to the outhouse to empty her bucket, cleans it with a rag and some snow. Leaves it to air on the porch before she comes back inside. 

"Need help?" she asks after washing her hands again. 

"Just about done," he says. "You woke up just in time for brunch."

The table's already set. Charlie takes off her jacket and hangs it on the coat rack by the door, pulls out her chair and sits. 

Miles proceeds to fill her plate with food. Rabbit stew with nuts and herbs. He places a bowl of canned fruit next to her plate. Pours tea into her mug. 

It's a feast. 

"What's the occasion?" Charlie asks, watching him ladle some stew onto his own plate. 

His only answer is to smile at her. "Eat," he says as he sits down.

She eats. The food is delicious; she tells him so. 

Sometime later, they're both sitting by the fire. Charlie combs her hair, gazing at the flames, letting her mind wander. She feels warm and content. 

She doesn't notice that Miles has left the couch until he's taking his place next to her again. 

"Merry Christmas," he says. He sets something on the couch between them. 

"Oh," Charlie breathes. "I haven't- I didn't-"

"I know," he says. "It's fine."

"When did you-"

"When you weren't looking," he tells her before she can even finish. He's smiling at her again. "Open it."

She puts down her comb. Reaches for the small bundle next to her. Something clacks inside it when she lifts it; it's heavier than she thought it would be. 

She looks at Miles, offering him a smile of her own. Looks at the gift in her hands and realizes it's a pouch. Faded blue cloth, a string fashioned out of braided shoelaces to tie the pouch together. It takes her a moment to recognize the fabric. 

"Your shirt?" she asks. 

"It looks better with short sleeves," he says. "Go on already."

Charlie obliges him. She pries the pouch open and empties the contents onto the coffee table. 

Six small stones. Plain gray ones, the kind she might find on the ground just about anywhere. There's nothing out of the ordinary about them. 

And then she notices the letters etched into them. A different one on each stone. _B. R. D. M. N. A._

Something aches inside her. "Miles," she whispers.

"I don't have any pictures to give you," Miles tells her. "And I can't replace your treasure box. But I thought..." He fidgets in his seat. "Hell, I don't know what I thought."

"Miles," she says again. "This is perfect, I love it. I do." She takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. She wants to say thank you, but her throat tightens and she can't get the words out. 

The look on his face tells her that she doesn't have to.

*

She keeps the pouch with her at all times. Under her pillow when she sleeps. Tied to one of her belt loops during the day. In full sight and within reach when she bathes. 

They fill the cabin with their voices. Words whispered in the early hours and the late ones alike. Words uttered clearly in the brightness of day. They tell each other of people and places they'd known. They remind themselves of things they'd forgotten. 

The moon waxes and wanes. Snow days come and go. They watch the sky together, the heavy clouds and the wispy ones, the endless blue of midday and the many hues of sunset. On clear nights the vastness above them is brilliant with stars. The Milky Way casts its long-ago light upon them; meteors chase down gravity in fiery streaks. There's even the unexpected glow of the aurora once, erupting across the dark in sweeping waves and keeping them awake until dawn. 

Charlie faces east sometimes. 

"You think the radiation's reached Danny's grave?" she asks on such a night. She grips the porch railing because it's there. Because it's something to hold on to.

"I don't know," Miles says from behind her. The floorboards creak as he steps closer to her. 

"I hope not. I hope there'll be flowers growing on it in spring," she says. She closes her eyes when Miles rubs his hands up and down her arms in a soothing motion. "I wish we'd had the chance to bury my mom. Nora and Aaron."

"Charlie," he says. "You have to let them go."

"Have you?" she asks him. 

"As best as I can," he says.

She sighs. She opens her eyes. "I don't know how."

"I can't tell you how. It doesn't work the same way for everyone."

Charlie thinks about the stones inside her pouch. She feels as if they weigh too much and too little all at once. "I still love them," she whispers. 

"Kid," Miles says. He hasn't called her that in a long time. "I'm not telling you to forget them. You can love them until the day you die, but how about living in the meantime."

"What if this is the best I can do?"

He doesn't have an answer for her. He just holds her. Presses a kiss to her hair. 

They face east together.

*

Spring peeks through the last of winter in small, insistent bursts of green. There are two days of intense sunshine that turn the snow into slush. The Douglas-firs stand clear again, shedding months of heavy coating. 

After the sunshine there's frost. Then sun again. Then more snow. Powdery-fine, making everything glisten in the starlight when the clouds part. 

It's a new moon night. 

It's Charlie's birthday. She's not sure when she started keeping track of the date again. 

"I've been thinking," she says. They're both seated at their usual places on the couch, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

"About?" he asks her. 

"Home," she says. "Not any specific place, more the idea of it."

Miles doesn't say anything. She's grateful for it; she needs the quiet to gather her thoughts.

"I don't want to keep wandering anymore," she says. "It makes me feel lost. Like I don't belong anywhere." She looks around the cabin. "You were right. We were lucky to find this place. But I don't think we can stay here," she goes on. "We need seeds to plant a garden, we can't survive indefinitely without any vegetables. We need better tools, better winter clothes. We need all kinds of supplies." She looks at Miles. "So we need to go somewhere, find work, earn enough to buy all of that. By the time we make it back here it could be almost winter again. Or it could take even longer."

"We'd need a horse and cart, too," Miles says. "Maybe a couple of goats."

"Yeah," Charlie says. "Coming back here just doesn't sound practical."

"It doesn't," Miles agrees.

"But I want- I want us to have a home," she says. "If you think you could stand to settle down."

Miles stares at the fire. It takes him a moment to respond. "I think I've had enough of the wandering life, too," he says. 

They sit in silence for a while. 

"If you could have anything for your birthday," he says. "What would it be?"

"You first," she murmurs. "I owe you a Christmas present."

"Bottle of whiskey," he says. And then, "Toilet paper if we could find any."

They both laugh. Charlie leans against him. He puts his arm around her.

"A rocking chair," she says. 

He rubs his hand against her arm. "Hmm. That doesn't sound too hard." 

It's a promise even if he doesn't phrase it as one. 

She knows he'll keep it.

*

"There's something I wanna show you," Miles says. "If you're up for a hike."

They've been packing. Getting ready to leave. The weather's been sunny for three weeks straight. It's almost May.

"Sure," Charlie says. They've been out hunting and gathering again since the snows melted in March, but the following rains discouraged them from straying too far from the cabin, kept them waiting until now. The prospect of something new is a welcome one.

It's not an easy hike, but the ground feels firm under their feet. They walk higher up the mountain, even climbing sometimes. They stop often to drink from their canteens. There are daffodils blooming everywhere. Charlie's breathless when they reach the top; Miles grabs her hand and tugs her after him to the very summit.

The view that greets her is like nothing she's ever seen.

There are other mountain peaks, gray-green in the distance, some of them still snow-capped. There are valleys and a mighty river. Fields of wildflowers. Charlie turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. The wind whips her hair about her. 

She stops turning when she faces west. There's something else there. 

Water. Water everywhere, stretching far into the horizon. Deep blue and deeper blue, blue that she can't name. Glistening-bright where light dips into it. Frothy-white where it curls upon itself.

"What is that?" she whispers. Even though she already knows. She thinks she wants to hear him say it.

"The ocean," Miles says. "The Pacific Ocean."

She can't find her voice. She kneels on the ground instead. 

He's right there next to her, his hand almost too tight around her arm. "Charlie?"

She grips his shoulder with her hand. Doesn't take her eyes off the ocean.

It could be minutes. It could be hours. The sorrow-joy inside her doesn't lessen. The wind is the only sound.

Miles stands up when she tries to. He has to help her up because her legs have gone numb.

"Okay?" he asks her. He tucks her tangled hair behind her ear. Searches her eyes with his.

She blinks back her tears. Offers him a soft smile. "Yeah," she whispers.

"We should head back," he says.

Charlie looks out at the ocean again. Touches the pouch hanging at her hip. "Not yet," she says. She frees the pouch from her belt loop and pulls it open. 

One at a time, she takes the stones out of the pouch. One by one, she throws them over the edge. Watches them tumble through the air in a wide arc before they disappear from sight. _Goodbye_ , she thinks. _Goodbye. Goodbye. Love you. See you on the other side._

There's only one stone left. She holds it in the palm of her hand. Rubs her thumb against the _D_. Over and over and over. 

She closes her fingers around the stone. She looks at Miles. "I can't," she whispers. There are tears in her eyes again.

Miles holds her gaze with his. He reaches for her hand. Makes her open her fingers and takes the stone from her. 

For an instant, she thinks he's going to send it flying after the others. Terror blooms in her mind. But then he's taking the pouch from her too; he puts the stone back inside it, moves closer to her and ties it to her belt loop. 

They wrap their arms around each other at the same time. She tucks her face against his chest, feels his heartbeat. He smells of sweat and often-worn clothes, of sun and dirt and wind. He's the only true home left for her in the world. 

"I think we're about twenty miles from the ocean here," he says. "Thirty at the most. If that's where you wanna go."

"I walked a thousand miles for Danny," she says. "A thousand more to get here. What's another thirty?"

He strokes her hair. "We need to go if we wanna make it back to the cabin before dark."

She pulls away from his embrace. He stays close to her. 

They start their way down the mountain.


End file.
